A Serious Case of Optimism
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: Malcolm is tired of being the ship's resident pessimist. So one day, he decides to try the alternative approach...
1. The Prologue

**Disclaimer: Star Trek and all its intellectual property belongs to CBS/Paramount. No infringement intended, no money made.**

* * *

"I have discovered something that may be of interest, Captain."

T'Pol's voice breaks into what's been a slightly somnolent afternoon on the Bridge.

It's been a remarkably uneventful fifteen days. The area of space we're traversing is thin even on stars, and those we've encountered have had nothing unusual about them to encourage even a brief inspection. The most exciting thing we've done in the last week was to drop down to impulse power for an hour while Trip went into the nacelles for a routine inspection. He hadn't found anything (his report sounded almost regretful of that fact, as though he'd become so bored he rather hoped he might), and the ship had resumed standard course and speed. Our journey since then has been so devoid of interest that in the Mess Hall this lunchtime Travis remarked to Hoshi, sharing a table with us, that when he'd visited Engineering this morning, Commander Tucker had been leaning disconsolately on the control platform railing staring at the chequered fascia in front of him as though contemplating using it to play a round of 'Battleships' with Anna Hess, just to give him something to do.

"You could have gone down and given him a game, Lieutenant," he said jokingly to me, hearing me respond to the news with a sardonic grunt. "I swear, we've done just about all the fine tuning the phase cannons can take!"

Another grunt was my only reply, signifying my opinion that it is _impossible _for phase cannons or, indeed, any other item of weaponry to be too finely or too regularly tuned; but for the past day or two even I have occasionally cast a glance that could be interpreted as wistful towards the view screen. Not that I'm asking for trouble, of course – unlike some people around here, I prefer to give suspicious circumstances a very wide berth indeed. But something interesting by way of a stellar phenomenon would at least give us all something to look at, even if we did have to endure T'Pol telling us that Vulcans don't think stellar phenomena are interesting.

Now everyone on the Bridge sits up and takes notice. Captain Archer, who had emerged briefly from hours of mundane paperwork in his Ready Room to take his seat for five minutes as though trying to remember what it felt like, was on his way back to resume his task. The news stops him in his stride.

"Interesting?" he asks hopefully. "In what way, interesting?"

"A Minshara-class planet, Captain. Some three light-years distant. And I am picking up signs of something that may be a ship in orbit around it. It is a little too far to pick up any details." She doesn't have to say anything else.

'Good' has just got 'better'. At least in some people's opinions, though my original surge of hope has dimmed somewhat.

"Well, I think we ought to go say hello. Unless anyone has any serious objections…"

T'Pol, as a Vulcan, usually has at least some objections to the ship racing off to prod potential problems into life, but she is well past voicing them, having given up hope long ago of the voice of caution being either heard or heeded. I, who share her dubious outlook on the inevitable friendliness of the locals, am content to sit back at Tactical, fold my arms and look non-committal.

Well, OK. I was getting a _little_ bit bored.

But bored enough to want to go looking for trouble?

Certainly not.


	2. Chapter 1

"Fine. We'll send a full introduction to our species as soon as the translation matrix can process it. Then, we look forward to meeting you!"

Captain Archer signs off on a cheerful note, and there are smiles all around on the Bridge (well – _almost_ all around). After two weeks of boredom, anything of interest is generally welcome; and though the Minshara-class planet doesn't prove to be particularly interesting after all, the inhabitants of the ship orbiting it are apparently on a mission much like ourselves – to explore their part of the galaxy and extend the hand of welcome to anyone happy to grasp it. It isn't every day that First Contact is made with a species who give every indication of being as keen to make friends as the explorers from Earth are; and the ship we've encountered is as graceful and elegant as the people in it.

The _Sotoaret_, they call themselves, which apparently translates as 'The Friendly Ones'. They're generally humanoid in shape, though with faces that appear to be far more sharply divided on a vertical plane than Humans'; it wouldn't be too unjust a comparison to say that the face had a slightly comical resemblance to an axe, with the ridged brow and chin completing the line of a rather narrow nose. But the faces are admittedly cheerful nonetheless, and the species apparently merits a somewhat dismissive footnote in the Vulcan database of 'Gregarious. Believed to be harmless'.

'Gregarious' is clearly music to Jonathan Archer's ears. And, indeed, to those of all the rest of the officers and crew, with possibly the exception of the sole Vulcan on board, and me – a Tactical Officer who is always inclined to view any strangers with whom the ship or her crew interact with a distinctly jaundiced eye, at least until said interaction is safely past without any unfortunate incident occurring. 'Gregarious', to my apprehensive ears, holds overtones of potential disaster. It's with an expression of unrelieved gloom that I exchange glances with T'Pol that say 'Warning – proceed with caution'.

As for 'harmless', well. We'll see about _that_.

The Sotoaret ship proceeds on its way after exchanging information with _Enterprise _as to the location of their home world and the various protocols that will smooth the way for establishing friendly relations. It will take us several days to reach it at a comfortable cruising speed – time in which the officers and crew can bring ourselves up to speed with the 'do's' and 'don'ts' of this promising new contact. Deterred not at all by the Vulcans' somewhat patronising dismissal of these potential new friends, the captain is plainly determined to make the very most of the opportunity.

"'Bout time we found someone out here who wants to talk to us," comments Trip, meeting up with me in the Mess Hall for lunch the following day. "I'd have thought you'd be over the moon they weren't takin' pot shots at us."

"_Yet_," I reply darkly, spearing an asparagus stem with my fork.

Tucker had claimed to be famished as we sat down, but at this he pauses and looks across in exasperation. "Don't you _dare_ tell me you weren't bored out o' your brains like the rest of us!" he scolds. "Now we've actually met some decent folks, who actually want to make friends with us, I swear to God, you're already suspectin' the worst!

"Malcolm, do you really never have one good impression of absolutely _an__ybody_ you run into?"

"Certainly not. My job doesn't depend on 'impressions'. I simply don't allow my optimism to have free rein before the _evidence_ has given me reasonable grounds to do so."

The look I get for this observation suggests that Trip is unconvinced I actually know what 'optimism' is, let alone how to spell it.

"'Optimism' is an excellent thing _in its place,_" I continue. I'd have liked to add waspishly 'But 'Optimism _bias_' is potentially disastrous, especially on the bridge of a starship', but that would be criticism of a senior officer, so with an effort I keep my mouth shut. I studied psychology in school, and am horribly aware that 'In an uncertain or rapidly changing situation, the optimist's relative inattention to detail, failure to seek new information and selective inattention to unpromising data can lead to poorly informed decisions.' This quote could practically sum up Captain Archer's attitude to risk, and the rather less reverent observation that 'God guards fools' could sum up rather neatly the fact that so far none of the crew has been lost because of it.

"I'll tell you what," my companion says after a moment. "I don't think there'll ever be a better chance for you to try lookin' at things through somethin' other than those damn pessimism lenses you wear all the time. So barrin' anything that actually presents itself as a threat to life an' limb, why don't you actually try to hope for the best this time?"

I compress my mouth on the retort that 'hoping for the best but preparing for the worst' is actually my _modus operandi_. I still have rather unpleasant (if slightly blurred) memories of being called the 'Grim Reaper' back during that noteworthy occasion when the two of us were imprisoned together in Shuttlepod One, and for all that I'm certain that a sober Trip would never repeat such a hurtful gibe, it occurs to me now that my friend is still irked by my inability to view the world through rosier spectacles.

"Very well," I respond at last. "I shall do my very best to look forward to the occasion just as much as the rest of you appear to do."

Trip almost chokes on a slice of tomato. "You mean it?"

I shrug, though I'm careful to look down at my plate to disguise the rather cynical curve of my smile. "One can but try."


	3. Chapter 2

During the next couple of days, I make every effort to rein in my automatic distrust. I can't – and don't – dismiss it altogether, but where queries about security have to be made, I do my best to phrase them as though I'm simply carrying out my necessary-but-dull duties as the Head of Department. And when others talk about the possibilities of shore leave, if the Sotoaret should prove as friendly as their name suggests, I grit my teeth and remain silent rather than interject acerbic comments about 'caution' being a good idea, at least to begin with.

Not that I intend to forgo or even moderate caution when we arrive. There's still that proviso about 'threats to life and limb', and neither life nor limb of any member of the ship's crew will be placed in hazard if I can prevent it. But it can't be denied that it's rather pleasant to take a rest – if only a temporary one – from being the resident prophet of doom; and even I have to admit (if only to myself) that our soon-to-be hosts certainly gave a most convincing show of pleasure at the prospect of entertaining new guests, and that if this hid dark intentions it certainly hid them extremely well.

There is nothing in the protocols to give me any cause for concern. Certain of the Sotoaret cultural traditions might seem somewhat old-fashioned – for instance, women are expected to wear 'modest' clothing in public, which includes covering the legs right to the ankle – but this doesn't seem to betoken any sinister indication of them being considered as second-class citizens in any way. They have the same legal standing as men, can own property and run businesses, and can hold positions of authority if they have the capability of exercising them effectively.

"The quartermaster has put together appropriate clothing for our visit," remarks T'Pol, addressing the early morning meeting in the Situation Room. "Although standard uniforms may be considered suitable for men, it is possible that they would be considered offensively revealing for women. As a compromise, Ensign McLeish has suggested that a wrap-around skirt could be worn over the uniform." She'd placed a folded piece of cloth on the table, and now shakes it out to reveal a single piece of grey fabric attached to a long waistband. "It can simply be tied around the waist, thus providing the required modesty without compromising freedom of movement."

"Couldn't we just wear long skirts?" asks Hoshi.

"Once cordial relations have been established, that would probably be perfectly acceptable," the Vulcan answers. "But the first meeting is considered a formal occasion, and uniforms would be in order. The quartermaster will produce garments of the appropriate length for each female member of the landing party, when the captain has designated them."

"I guess it'll be just you and Hoshi," Archer says cheerfully. "Maybe you can put in a word for Vulcan while we're there, and Hoshi can do her stuff with the language."

"It's already programmed into the matrix, sir." Hoshi is justifiably proud of this achievement, which will make the initial meetings on the planet far simpler for everybody. "There were some resemblances to Rigelian syntax, so I'm hoping to get to talk to some linguists while we're there to explore the influences on their language's development."

"I'm sure they'll be happy to discuss it with you."

"I may find the opportunity to discuss opening a relationship with Vulcan at some point," T'Pol admits, rather as if she was confessing an intention of indulging in some illicit activity in a gambling den.

"So Vulcan may have to find a 'gregarious' ambassador, hey?" Trip's eyes twinkle.

"As every ambassador knows, there are times when the unpleasant habits of other species simply have to be endured."

_Ouch._ I look down at the Situation Table with entirely spurious interest, trying to hide my grin. Captain Archer is far less successful, but then he doesn't try as hard.

"We've been invited to a meeting with the Supreme Planetary Council," the captain goes on, after rubbing his mouth a bit in the rather unsuccessful attempt to rub the smile off it. "After the introductions, there's a celebratory meal, then we'll have a less formal get-together. That'll probably include the families and the people who didn't quite qualify for the formal meeting."

"You mean like a party!" Trip, irrepressible as a geyser, is fairly sparkling with anticipation.

_O, joy. A whole bloody evening poodle-faking._ When only this morning the latest updates from Starfleet R&D weapons research landed in my inbox, and I've been looking forward all day to a whole evening blissfully perusing them instead, PADD at the ready to note down any observations of my own.

_Happy Thoughts, Malcolm. Must think Happy Thoughts._

"I'm sure it will be most enjoyable, sir," I manage to get out.

I have no idea why everyone stops in mid-gabble and looks at me as though I must be sickening for something. I'm being optimistic, aren't I?

"I'm sure it will, Malcolm." Captain Archer eyes me with undisguised wonder.

Even one of T'Pol's eyebrows goes up.

This optimism lark is bloody overrated, if you ask me.


	4. Chapter 3

The captain is obviously keen for us to make a good impression, so we're ordered to wear dress uniforms for the reception.

I don't, _per se_, object to wearing dress uniforms. Although I wouldn't go so far as to say so, I think mine rather suits me. The standard uniforms are certainly practical, but nobody is ever going to claim they were made to flatter; and the grey silk matches my eyes, which Maddie always used to say was attractive, though I'm sure I never understood why – perhaps it's just another of those arcane 'woman things' that have perplexed the opposite sex since time immemorial.

So, after covertly making sure that security is as tight as it possibly can be without the captain becoming aware of it, I duly turn up at the shuttle bay, hanging on to my 'optimism' like a climber suspended above a vertical drop clutching a slipping piton. Certainly the exchanges since our arrival have confirmed the amiable nature of our hosts, and if promises are anything to go by, it should be a memorable visit. If we can give a good account of ourselves, this may prove a valuable ally for Starfleet. So it's smiles all round and 'play nicely', and off we jolly well go to the party.

I can't bloody wait.

The flight down is uneventful. About four-fifths of the planet is covered by water, and a good half of the land mass is concentrated at the poles, which are perpetually entombed in ice. So there isn't a lot of habitable land, but what there is, is covered with vegetation. The shuttle sweeps down across verdant plains towards the city where the reception is to be held, and it's immediately apparent that the Sotoaret elegance of design isn't confined to their ships. The city too is beautifully put together, its scores of tall, slender silver spires giving it almost the look of a crown sitting on an emerald velvet cushion. Clearly, it makes no pretence of defensibility; it's surrounded by lakes and gardens, while further out what are clearly fields are laid out in a lush patchwork. As we peer out across this admittedly lovely landscape, everyone comments on its beauty – Hoshi isn't that far off the mark when she describes it as 'fairytale'. But though I resolutely refrain from commenting, personally I've never had any time for fairies. Modern depictions of them tend to focus on the cute and twee angles, but historically the Fair Folk were known to be no friends to humankind…

'Optimism, Lieutenant! Optimism!' The admonition's so clear in my ear that for a moment I almost look around for Phlox, who would be the first to applaud my unwonted venture into the delusional. Our good doctor, however, is currently absorbed in a particularly delicate experiment that requires all his attention, and he'll make one of the second tranche of visitors that will follow if this first one goes according to plan.

Still – 'Optimism' it is; and stifling a sigh, I keep my hands from the weapons console, contenting myself only with a small sideways glance to make sure that all the 'Standby' indicators are glowing. I have no intention of admitting that I set my alarm for unearthly hours this morning to creep down and check that everything was working perfectly. Not that I have any lack of confidence in Trip and his engineers, but where weapons are concerned, there's nobody I trust to be quite as paranoid as I am.

The shuttlepod curves down to the courtyard where the reception party is waiting, and settles down lightly on the paving. The sun is shining brilliantly in a cloudless sky, the trees that surround us are smothered in bright yellow flowers, the faces of the welcoming party are wreathed in smiles, and we're all dressed up to play the gracious guests for all we're worth.

Doubtless with the intention of promoting conversation, after the initial introductions to dozens of dignitaries of whom I retain little but vague impressions, each of the visitors is seated at dinner beside their opposite number in the regime. In line with the requirements of protocol, I sent details of the landing party to the planetary Head of Security, a woman named Konthater'amleen Yayaveri; having carefully memorised the spelling, I got Hoshi to teach me the pronunciation. Considering that the species prides itself on its friendliness, her approach up to now has been strictly businesslike, and I'd got the distinct impression that if ever we met up in the flesh, she probably wasn't going to be a shining example of amiability.

Still – 'Optimism, Lieutenant!' – I give it a go. Without making the slightest suggestion that I'm either offering to disclose Starfleet's technical information or showing undue interest in the Sotoaret's, I open negotiations with a perfectly neutral observation on how sophisticated their ships appear, combining functionality and beauty. Secretly, of course, I think _Enterprise_ is the most beautiful ship I've ever seen, but I'm probably just a little biased; and in my experience, opening a conversation with a compliment is usually fairly sure to result in at least a few minutes of good-natured exchange.

Well. That was the idea. Konthater'amleen Yayaveri gives me a look that fairly drops a duranium portcullis between us and says that it's entirely improper to discuss technology with aliens.

"I wasn't attempting to discuss technology, Ma'am," I reply, keeping my voice even. "I wouldn't be so rude or so stupid as to attempt it. I was simply complimenting your ship design."

"Then let us leave it at that, Lieutenant."

You can tell the UT was programmed by an American. Most of the time nowadays I hardly notice it any more, even from Trip, but for some reason the oddly-emphasised 'Loo-tenant' provokes me.

"I'm more than happy to leave it at that, Ma'am. If and when you feel willing to continue the conversation, please feel free to introduce a topic you feel _will _be appropriate." And, my tone undoubtedly implies, you can take your chances with how hard _you_ get slapped down.

Maybe she doesn't rate her chances as that high, or maybe she never wanted to sit beside an alien anyway. She starts eating, and so do I, and from that point onward we studiously ignore one another. Which suits me down to the ground actually, because conversation has never been my strong point, and even though I'm willing to obediently 'play nice' when the captain tells me to, it's a relief when my playmate clearly doesn't want to play at all.

Still, for all that it's a relief, I won't deny I'm still a bit pissed off. Manners cost nothing, and these people are supposed to be friendly; and after I've gone to all the bother of being optimistic, it's irksome to have all that highly unnatural effort completely wasted. When the dinner finally crawls to its close – helped on its way by speeches to which I listen with one ear, praying that gazelles never get a mention, which fortunately they don't – we visitors are shown to our guest quarters, where we are supposed to rest and recruit our energies for the next and thankfully final part of the day's events. I part from my table-companion with the curtest of nods, basically hoping that I don't even see her during the wearisome festivities that are scheduled to follow.

Parties. O God, I hate parties. Casting myself on my bed, which is admittedly extremely comfortable, I think longingly of that unbelievably alluring update awaiting me back on the ship. Instead of enduring hours of drinking strictly non-alcoholic beverages and trying not to let Captain Archer spot that I'm keeping an eye out for suspicious characters and assessing the venue for potential escape routes, I could be snug in my quarters reading up on fascinating developments in Starfleet armaments.

I wonder if the captain would believe me if I said I thought something I'd eaten had triggered one of my allergies and I had to get a shot of something from Phlox straight away?

He probably would, actually, but then as soon as he got back on board he'd comm Phlox for confirmation that I hadn't developed complications and died of them, and then things would get somewhat awkward.

Besides, if there's one thing I can pretty well guarantee it's that our genial Denobulan has done his homework as regards my allergies. He was a bit cheesed off with himself after that hallucinogenic pollen lark, and as much as I'd like to be able to sneak back to the ship with a case of the unconquerable sniffles, I genuinely wouldn't want to make him worry that he'd missed something else that might have had tragic consequences – I mean tragic apart from making me sneeze a lot, which from my point of view is pretty damn tragic when it happens; how's a fellow supposed to hit a barn door with a phase pistol blast when he can't see the bloody barn to begin with?

Oh, well. Party it is then. An hour's kip and then it's back to the grind.

'Optimism, Lieutenant! Optimism!'


	5. Chapter 4

A Reed is never backward in the performance of his duty.

However unenjoyable it may be.

This maxim firmly in mind, I set my chronometer alarm to give me twenty minutes to freshen up before I'm expected to mingle again, and with stern resolution I shut my eyes and will myself to sleep.

I wake feeling more despondent than ever, but still grimly determined to hang on to my optimism. If I trial it for one whole evening and am able to produce proof irrefutable afterwards that the whole damn effort was a complete and utter waste of time and energy, even Trip Tucker shouldn't be able to bellyache at me for my grasp of gritty reality. He may be a babe magnet wherever he goes, but Lady Luck's smiles at me are rather fewer and further between. I mean, if I couldn't even get laid on Risa, I may as well take vows of lifelong celibacy.

Still – despondency must be sternly banished; optimism is the order of the evening.

I carry out a quick wash and brush-up in the small, neat bathroom, and practise my optimistic smiles in the mirror.

I look as if I've got acute indigestion, if you ask me…

Still, maybe the Sotoaret won't be sufficiently clued up yet on Human physiognomy to determine that my friendly smile is more like a grimace of acute agony. I'll get through this evening grinning like a gargoyle if it's the last bloody thing I do, and when I've got to the far end of it I'll tell Commander Tucker precisely what he can do with his optimism.

With or without lubrication.

=/\=

I do my best to keep my good resolutions. I really do. And in fairness, the Sotoaret do try their very best, but the spectacular failure of my first essay at interplanetary diplomacy has made me more tongue-tied than ever. The lack of anything of any depth to talk about means that conversation stumbles to a halt fairly frequently, and although I know it's good manners to circulate among your hosts, half an hour in and I'm prey to the suspicion that I'm getting handed on from one to the next as if they're all hoping that sooner or later someone else will find me interesting.

"Hey, here he is!" Trip materialises at my elbow just as the latest victim smiles dutifully at me and wonders what the hell to say. "Finally! Loo-tenant, this is –" the term he comes out with sounds like fourteen or fifteen completely unrelated words crushed together into one polysyllabic monstrosity. "Thing is," he continues breezily, "she's the head honcho when it comes to literacy around here. I was tellin' her that your school back in England prides itself on its 'well-rounded education', an' you're big on readin' in your spare time. Maybe you could lend her your copy of _Ulysses_!"

I maintain my smile, though behind it my jaws are clenched. The Sotoa to whom I am being introduced – and whose name I have no earthly chance of reproducing with the smallest percentage of accuracy, making me look even more of a pillock than I already do – is tall and somewhat severe-looking. I'd guess she's a couple of years older than me, a little on the Junoesque side if it's not ungentlemanly to mention it, and she's dressed in a dark red gown thing that makes not the smallest suggestion of impropriety as revealing any more flesh than necessary.

"Loo-tenant Ree-eed," she says, extending her hand. Priding myself on having remembered at least that much, I spread my hand, palm uppermost, and her fingertips flutter gently against it. I have no idea what this gesture means, but Phlox had a few things to contribute from the IME database to our briefings, and he said that the Sotoaret have highly sensitive sensory organs at the ends of their fingers, able to detect far more than simple pressure and heat like our skin does. Nobody so far has offered me this particular greeting; just maybe – my rapidly failing optimism lifts its head timidly and gasps at hope like a drowning man gasps at oxygen – she doesn't have the same reservations about sharing literacy that the other one had about technology.

Well. You can't really compare them, can you? I've never encountered an instruction from Starfleet forbidding me from sharing Shakespeare with suspicious-looking strangers. I mean, it's not like a first edition of Byron's verse would command astronomical prices on the interstellar black market.

So. Guardedly I admit to having studied English literature at school, to some depth in fact; and if a discussion on the intricacies of Shakespeare's influence on the English language will steer me through the diplomatic shoals without shipwreck, I think I can remember enough to make my various English masters smile proudly that their efforts weren't entirely wasted.

"We have been examining the texts that your information packet contained," she continues, "and there is one in particular that is of great interest to my particular field of study."

It seems a bit vulgar to ask what particular field that may be, since she doesn't volunteer the information. Quite possibly it's not Shakespeare after all, but then again, as I had occasion to inform Trip in Shuttlepod One (and he has just proved he remembers), Nottingham Old Hall did provide its pupils with a well-rounded curriculum. I may not be able to expatiate on other members of the _literati_ quite as fluently as I would on Shakespeare, but I flatter myself that I can find something to say about most of the authors likely to have been included in the Starfleet standard issue cultural and historical sampler.

"If it would not be too great an imposition," she goes on, "I would be greatly honoured if you would accompany me to our study rooms and elucidate some of the finer points of the text."

Well. It wasn't what I was expecting to do when I came down here, but there again the alternative is to spend the rest of the evening making inadequate and embarrassing attempts at small-talk with strangers, which is considerably less my forte than elucidating Shakespeare or whoever it is that the good lady is interested in. Though I hope it's not one of the Medieval English authors, Chaucer or someone like that … I can work my way through some of it, but it's damnably hard work and I'm not sure Hoshi put quite that much detail into the UT.

This, of course, is exactly what my blond nemesis has set me up for. At a guess, he regards spending an evening expatiating on literacy as some form of specialised hell, especially when compared to the delights of socialising – and some of the Sotoaret are quite attractive, even if diplomacy forbids that we officially notice that fact.

Making an inward note to schedule Commander Tucker several dozen extra practices with a phase pistol for poor marksmanship (yes, I'm perfectly capable of tinkering with the sights to ensure this), I smile politely and say that nothing would give me greater pleasure, if the captain would have no objection.

"Oh, I already cleared it with the cap'n," says Trip cheerfully. "He says anything we can do to make ourselves agreeable to our new friends is fine with him." And, at a guess, any refusal to do so – however gracefully phrased it might be – would not be well received, either by my hosts or my commanding officer.

Possibly Captain Archer's marksmanship is scheduled to take a downturn too.

However, as I have previously remarked, a Reed is never backward in the performance of his duty. And since both fate and my commanding officer decree that should an unexpected crisis befall, I will be absolutely nowhere useful to deal with it, and duty this evening calls for ploughing the long-neglected furrows of English literature instead, then I will set my hand to it resolutely.

"Excuse my mentioning it, Ma'am, but I didn't catch your name precisely," I confess as the two of us leave the Hall, heading for the library.

Her rather severe expression (I hope it's naturally severe, and not that way as a result of speaking to me) relaxes slightly. "Commander Tuckerrr did not pronounce it quite correctly," she concedes, and proceeds to coach me through it. "O-ray-mak-fa Mor-seha-frini."

Hoshi would be proud. I only get it wrong three times, and I think the third was _nearly_ right.

"We have procedures in place to ensure that our library remains as free as possible from microbes," she advises me as we reach our destination, at the far end of a long corridor. "We believe you are familiar with decontamination procedures?"

"Perfectly."

"Then it is expected that you use one of the booths here. There is a garment set out for your use afterwards."

Well, this seems to be taking things to an unexpected level, but I've no business objecting; presumably they have some very old and valuable material, and they're entitled to want it safeguarded to the highest extent possible. The door opens to reveal a short corridor, lined with semi-transparent doors. Inside each is a small compartment, with a bench on which sits what's presumably the 'garment' I'm supposed to wear afterwards, and another door beyond it which presumably leads to the shower itself. After seeing me safely inside, she turns aside to use one on her own account.

I slip into the compartment and after a quick look around that's more habitual than anything else, remove my clothes and fold them neatly on the bench, with my shoes underneath it. On top of the garment there's what's obviously a pair of eye protectors, a bit like swimming goggles; if they're there, they're obviously meant to be used, so I don them, finding that even though there's no band to fit around my head to hold them on, they mould themselves to my facial structure and hang on all by themselves, rather (not a happy comparison) like Phlox's osmotic eel. Then I walk – rather apprehensively – into the cubicle beyond, more than half expecting to be drenched with water from jets that aren't immediately obvious in the somewhat dim lighting.

But as soon as I close the door behind me, I discover that it's not a shower. At a guess it's highly sophisticated technology, because lights activate in the floor, ceiling and side panels, and a gentle, reassuring hum fills my ears as beams begin to criss-cross across my body.

It doesn't take long. The lights go off, the hum ends with a happy-sounding chirp of approval, and the door behind me releases.

Presumably practically every available surface of me is now guaranteed bacteria-free, except possibly for those places which are highly unlikely to come into contact with priceless manuscripts; after all, I'm not going to show my appreciation of anything by wiping my eyeballs on it. I wish Phlox could have a look at this system, though. It's a darn sight quicker and more effective than ladling gel over yourself, though admittedly when you're sharing the decon room with the ladies I defy anyone – professional or otherwise – not to appreciate the view. Both systems have their good points.

Feeling clean and virtuous, I peel off the goggles, leaving them on the bench because there doesn't seem to be anywhere else to put them, and pick up the garment I've been given. It's like a long-sleeved, ankle-length coat of what looks and feels like undyed linen, without any ornamentation except an internal tie on the right side and an external one on the left, both of which I fasten very securely. I'm happy to note that there's plenty of surplus material in front, allowing freedom of movement without any risk of accidentally baring a shin (or worse); hardly surprising, as these people are a bit on the conservative side when it comes to bare flesh, and doubtless my hostess will be similarly clad so that neither of us can accidentally offend each other's sensibilities.

Right. Now for the exposition of Shakespeare. I hope it's Shakespeare, anyway, but whatever it is, I'll do my best.

Oreymakfa is waiting for me in the internal corridor outside, and gestures me politely to the library. She is, indeed, clad in the same all-concealing type of robe that I am, and feeling relieved that at least my evening is going to be free of any more excruciating awkwardness, I push the door open.

The room inside is spotlessly clean. There are shelves and shelves of books, as well as racking containing what looks like thousands of computer disks, but it has to be admitted that I hardly spare a glance for the disks or the books – not when I notice the pictures on the walls.

Considering that less than a minute ago I was reminding myself that the Sotoaret were conservative about the sight of bare flesh, they certainly seem to have cast their reservations to the four winds in this room. As I glance wildly from one picture to the next, it becomes apparent that this particular repository of wisdom is strictly for adult viewing only.

"It surprises me that you Humans have trouble with our names," my companion remarks, leading me casually towards the desk on which some kind of electronic reader is sitting. "You will perhaps teach me how the name of this Earth author should be properly pronounced?"

Despair has settled in my stomach like a cold, sodden weight. Even before she brings up the title page of the one book out of the Starfleet cultural library that fits unerringly among the contents of this room, I already know what I'm going to see.

My mouth feels as if I last drank water several lifetimes ago, but I get out the syllables somehow.

"Vātsyāyana Mallanaga."

Not that they ever produced _this _particular literary classic for pupils to study in Nottingham Old Hall – the uptake for literature classes would have quadrupled overnight if they had.

Of course, the book expatiates on four subjects, of which _Dharma_ (moral responsibility), _Artha_ (material prosperity) and _Moksha_ (spiritual liberation) are considered to be three of the four pillars of happiness. But my inward conviction proves all too well founded; it's the fourth that has seized the librarian's imagination. _Kama _(the pleasures of the senses). As in the sort of pleasures that are portrayed in image after image that has me so mortified with embarrassment that I hardly dare look sideways in case my hostess sees the starving tiger staring at T-bone steak.

I've been called up to explain to an alien about the bloody _Kamasutra._


	6. Chapter 5

"You have studied this work, Loo-tenant?" she inquires, gazing raptly at a picture of an extremely lucky fellow with a rather scantily-clad lady on her knees in front of him.

"I've read it," I manage. It hardly seems the moment to admit that I was seventeen at the time and mostly interested in the pictures.

Later, of course, it dawned on me that there was actually more to it than the erotica, and I did find the other parts very interesting, if rather hard going – I'm not ashamed to admit that I skipped quite a lot of it. But for all the flowery language, there were nuggets of sound sense that stuck in my memory, and that came in handy when I finally got around to the sort of times in the bedroom that weren't only a matter of satiating a hunger that was sometimes as selfish as it was single-minded.

"It will take some time for our translators to work through the text," she pursues, turning to another page whose illustration is graphic enough to have me internally writhing with mortification, "but in the meantime you will have no objection to demonstrating some of the techniques?"

–_What?_

It seems like several years before I can muster the polite equivalent. "I … I beg your pardon?"

She seems genuinely surprised by my outright shocked expression. "You have strong _zsimsti. _I have already ascertained that. Why are you troubled?"

I don't know what a _zsimsti_ is (I wasn't even aware I had one, whatever it is), and as for it – or indeed possibly them – being strong, well, I'm sure I should be flattered that she thinks so, even if it's news to me. But the primary emotion that grips me is absolute panic.

I'm on a diplomatic bloody mission here. I'm supposed to be elucidating Shakespeare, not participating in live demonstrations of the murkier ends of ancient Hindu eroticism!

During the rather inebriated period of our sojourn in Shuttlepod One, Trip confided to me in a tone of some grievance the way T'Pol had castigated him for his supposed 'misbehaviour' with the Xyrillian engineer that had ended up with him pregnant. She apparently waxed scathing about diplomats knowing where not to stick their fingers.

Well, if this specific illustration is any guide, fingers will be the least of my worries. And if ever this particular diplomatic _faux pas_ came to light, the mind boggles on what either T'Pol or Captain Archer would find to say about it.

(I'm not worried about Trip. It's about time I had something to get one up on _him _about.)

I'm struggling to come up with something exceptionally tactful and diplomatic about it being far more appropriate for her to sneak a copy home and surprise her husband with it when I feel the sudden, sinister movement of my robe being snuck into.

It's not the first movement there's been down there, but it's the first one I wasn't expecting. I produce a sound midway between a horrified bleat and an ecstatic moan as her fingers home in on my _zsimsti _(I somehow can't see myself indignantly interrogating Hoshi later as to why _that_ term hadn't been programmed into the UT). It may be the right word and it may not, but whatever it means, I find myself gripping the table and going weak at the knees as I struggle valiantly to remember I'm trying to be a diplomat here.

"I … er…._mf…_" My, a well-rounded education certainly comes in handy. I sound as if I've hardly mastered the technique of articulation.

I don't know what those sensory organs on her fingertips are doing now, well at least I don't know what they're doing for _her. _I know damn well what they're doing for me, and my despairing grasp of diplomacy is weakening by the second.

Her free hand operates a button cunningly concealed at the side of the desk. Almost without a sound, a rectangle of flooring in the clear space beyond it slides down and to one side, and in its place there rises a perfect vista of cushions, shaped and sized to facilitate any number of demonstrations of the weird and wonderful suggestions in the _Kamasutra_.

I'm still trying. God help me, I am. I'm a Starfleet officer and I'm on a diplomatic mission and I'm … I'm… Oh my God, if she doesn't stop I'm going to disgrace myself.

My forebrain tells my legs to remove me _immediately_. My hindbrain absolutely forbids me to move one bloody centimetre. I'm ashamed to admit that I'm too paralysed to heed either of them as I'm led gently but inexorably towards the cushions. Resistance right now would be extremely painful, for one thing.

"You will explain the meaning of the word 'courtesan'?" she enquires, delicately pulling loose the first of the ties on her own robe as she settles us among the cushions.

The word 'diplomat' emerges, somewhere in the middle of a long moan as the second of the ties comes loose. I'm sure that at some point I may have the time and thought to spare for the definition of 'courtesan', but right at this moment I haven't the mental capacity to spare. That said, it's not exactly my brain that's in charge any more, and the part of me that is, is not big on semantics. The words 'Yes please' are about the limit.

"Is not one of the purposes of diplomacy a meeting of cultures?" she asks, deftly pulling my robe off my shoulders, ignoring my feeble and admittedly rather half-hearted attempts to keep it on.

I'm not sure I've ever heard it described as 'a meeting of cultures', but as of now, A is definitely ready, willing and eager to meet B. We can argue afterwards as to whether that fits the specific definition.

My gracious hostess clearly has a fine grasp of detail, or she's spent the whole afternoon reading. Without further discussion she adopts she pose we just looked at in the book, and that's the end of my career as a diplomat. After all, before I was either a Starfleet officer or a diplomat I was an English gentleman, and not one of those worth the name would disappoint a lady. _Especially_ not a lady in this position.

My last conscious thought is that if optimism works this well, I can see myself taking it up permanently.


	7. Chapter 6

At some unspecified but highly advanced hour that I'll guess is well after the chimes of midnight, what's left of me is steered into the decon chamber and then poured gently and kindly back into my uniform. Presumably they brush my hair, but there's probably nothing much they can do about my glazed expression.

With a certain amount of assistance from my learned hostess and three assistants who materialised during the evening to conduct further lines of inquiry into the business end of Earth erotic literature, I find my way back to the reception hall, just in time to join the official farewell ceremony. Glad only that nobody looks likely to expect me to hold a champagne glass, because at this present moment it would undoubtedly slip straight from my nerveless grasp, I slide stealthily back into the _Enterprise_ contingent and try to make it look not too obvious that I'm swaying where I stand.

The captain has clearly noted that I was a tad late returning from duty, but after the closing speeches he is elegantly buttonholed by Oreymakfa, who is once again a picture of total propriety, and complimented on my remarkable abilities to inform and educate.

I'm not sure I've ever heard it called that before, but I suppose she can hardly come out with what I was actually doing, though I suppose in some ways it was definitely educational. For one thing, I've been educated in the existence of muscles I never actually knew I possessed. I know they're there, because I suspect I've pulled several of them.

"Please excuse your officer for his late return," she continues, resting her hand on his sleeve and giving him the sort of look that would be enough to melt the hardest of hearts. "He was working very hard. He was a credit to Starfleet and to your ship."

For one moment I suspect some vestige of the truth drifts across Archer's brain. Then he looks at me, and he looks at her, and he decides that no, we couldn't _possibly_.

"I was sure he'd make every effort to give satisfaction," he replies, and how I keep my face straight I do not know. He bloody well got it right there. Couldn't have put it better myself, actually.

Trip, however, is less innocent. As we turn to take our leave and return to the shuttle, he and I are momentarily a few paces away from the others, who pause to take yet more polite farewells of our kind hosts.

If looks were hooks, he'd be dragging out the truth with a grappler.

"'_He was workin' very hard'_?" he says in an incredulously accusing undertone. "You don't mean to tell me you an' –?"

Finally, unobserved by authority, I can unleash the full smug, multi-megawatt smile of a happy and satisfied man in his direction. "You forgot the three library assistants."

His mouth falls open. He only manages to produce the 'F' sound of 'Four' (at least, I hope that's what he was trying to say). Still, it's by no means inappropriate, even if it wasn't.

"Yes. All four of them." I haven't got the strength left to stride, but I try to hurry up a bit. I want to get the maximum possible gloating in till the captain, T'Pol and Hoshi catch up with us and the appropriate propriety must be preserved.

"You're kiddin' me!" He matches my stride, peering into my face as though trying to catch the April Fool moment before it happens.

"You should take more of an active interest in literature," I needle him. "Or didn't you know that the Starfleet culture pack includes the _Kamasutra_?"

"The _K_–!" He stops in his tracks. He actually stops dead in his tracks. "You did _not_."

But for the fact that a) I know that Vulcans have exceptional hearing and someone would undoubtedly want to know why I'd punched the air in triumph, and b) I haven't got the strength left, I'd whoop and holler like a redneck at a rodeo. As it is, I give him an even bigger, smugger smile (if such a thing was actually possible) and suggest that while _Superman _may indeed be laced with metaphor and contain subtext layered on subtext, when it comes to lending colour to an orgy it's just not in the running.

The insult almost passes him by. He's too busy trying to process how spectacularly his mischief has backfired on him.

"You actually mean _all four?_" he demands, hurrying to catch up with me. "_All at once?"_

"Goodness gracious, Commander, I don't know how many _you've_ got down your trousers but _I've_ only got one." I cast him an elevated look that would probably work better if I wasn't still looking unbearably smug. "But as for the gory details, an English gentleman never discusses the ladies in his life."

"How 'bout a sneaky English son-of-a-bitch? An' as for what you've got down your pants, if you're not windin' me up, I'm surprised you've still got anything left."

"Oh, it's still attached, I assure you. Weary but triumphant."

Deary me. I hope T'Pol's exceptional Vulcan hearing didn't pick that language up. Definitely unbecoming an officer.

Envy is a terrible thing. And not at all what one expects to find in a senior officer.

But when one _does_ find it, one is going to make the absolute most of it.

For as long as humanly possible.


	8. Chapter 7

Trip Tucker is the worst bloody gossip in Starfleet.

I know this, because as soon as Travis comes onto the Bridge next morning he gawks at me like he's never seen a Tactical Officer before. If we weren't on duty I suspect he'd give me a great big grin and a thumbs-up, but in the circumstances he restrains himself to a flash of an admiring smile and a waggle of the eyebrows, and I can hardly put him on report for smiling at me.

That said, even the manifestation of several more muscles I never knew I possessed has not succeeded in damping down my happiness. Putting ensigns on report for being cheerfully envious would be a little harsh. So I let it pass, along with the reproachful look I presently receive from the direction of the Comms Station. I mean, I'd have invited her along too, if I thought she was interested in literature.

Fortunately for me, Commandah Tuckah clearly has not seen fit to update T'Pol's concept of my literary activities. She settles herself at the Science Station with her usual calm and comments that the captain is pleased that I was able to be of so much assistance the previous evening.

"I'm always glad to be of service, Sub-Commander," I reply, hoping she will think Travis has hiccups.

"Yes, you sure made a hit there, Malcolm!" The captain in question strides onto the Bridge and beams at me.

I could say 'Considerably more than one, sir', but I'd better not.

Travis's hiccups are getting worse. If he doesn't stop I'm going to send him to get a drink of water and his resignation letter from Starfleet.

"It's a pleasure to encounter people who are interested in studying the classics, sir," I respond, giving him my most limpidly innocent look. "I was introduced to several of Oreymakfa's fellow students, and they were kind enough to take an interest as well."

"You never did say, what book they were interested in?"

Fortunately, I'm ready for this. "Oh, there was a variety, sir. We went through all sorts. They were extremely fast learners."

"You don't say. Well, I guess we can say this was definitely one of our better First Contacts. I'll put in a word about you in my report to Admiral Forrest." And with another genial smile, he retires to his Ready Room and the safety of his gentle delusions.

Travis retires to get a drink of water. It's not safe to have the ship piloted by a helmsman who can't stop giggling.

Hoshi puts her earphone in, switches on the translator matrix and declines to remember I exist.

T'Pol becomes absorbed in the latest scientific reports from the planet's surface.

Presumably Commander Tucker is sulking in his domain and trying to convince himself that I didn't really.

And I sit back, cross my arms, smirk at the world in general and think that for once – just for once – my reckless foray into optimism actually paid off.

Still.

Just don't think I'm going to make a habit of it.

**The End.**


End file.
